Save Our Souls
by electricsymphony
Summary: She had twenty-four hours to intercept one measly letter. As far as plans went, she'd been on more dangerous ones before. What Hermione didn't foresee was a thirteen year old tag-along crying over her first date, burning the Hog's Head to the ground, saving the obnoxious, ornery dark-haired boy with the disarming, crooked smile and missing her time-lock by thirty-five damn seconds.


**Notes:** I fell in love with the idea of this pairing, and I didn't quite find enough to whet my appetite, so I wrote something instead. This started off rather experimental, just playing around, but by the end of it, I'm actually quite excited to see where this goes. I hope you are too. :)

Also, I've been mostly out of the HP fandom for... eight years, I think. Disgracefully, I haven't read the books in quite some time. I double-checked any potential plot holes in my DH copy before I posted this, but I probably missed some stuff. Please don't hesitate to call me out on it, I really would appreciate the help.

 **Disclaimer** : Harry Potter, its characters, plot lines and premise belong to JK Rowling, her publishers and their affiliates. I do not own anything detailed in this story, and I make no monetary profit by these writings.

* * *

 **April 27th, 1998**

There is something inherently mysterious about trust, faith and intuition. It doesn't always stem from the most rational place, even in the most logical of people — and Hermione Granger certainly counted herself in the latter group. Not only was this woman a known Death Eater sympathizer, housing the Dark Lord in her goddamn house, the mother of her childhood enemy and a proponent of a facist regime that wanted everyone of her 'inferior' birth eradicated from the Earth, but she had also — not even forty-eight hours ago — stood idly by and watched her deranged sister carve crude, racist slurs in Hermione's arm as a form of twisted torture.

Despite that, when Narcissa Malfoy owled Hermione to say, 'I have a plan to end the war', she had essentially responded in utter blind faith with, 'Great, sign me up. Just give me a short while to figure out how to meet you discreetly behind the prying eyes of my best friends.'

Why? Because desperation was an insidious disease.

She had tried to reason with them, she honestly had. A Gringotts break-in? That was a sort of desperation even she couldn't ascribe to. They wanted to trick a _goblin_ with nothing but not-so-carefully concealed loopholes, a fake story about a not-exactly fake sword, impersonation of the most famous Death Eater of all time and a brand of brazen, reckless stupidity she had foolishly hoped they had grown out of.

All things considered, it was a suicide mission.

'It's a _suicide mission_ , eh? And what is conspiring with Narcissa Malfoy, then? A bloody tea date with an old friend?'

She had a lot of experience blocking Ron's sarcastic voice from her mind, so she did just that.

"I didn't expect you to come alone."

"I didn't expect to come at all," she countered, willing herself to look anywhere but at Bill and Fleur Weasley, huddled over a copy of the Daily Prophet at a corner table, both disguised as an elderly couple of muggles they knew near Shell's Cottage.

Narcissa Malfoy always held herself with some ethereal, unshakeable confidence in even the most ludicrous situations, and Hermione wished she could say the same. Even given this, however, she had never seen the woman look so ragged. It wasn't overt — the socialite in her overrode the bigoted sychophant, apparently — but still, the devil was in the details. And the details in Narcissa's appearance indicated a heavy amount of weariness, unrest, terror and that tricky, fickle bastard otherwise known as... _desperation_.

It was dangerously contagious too, then, this disease of theirs.

"I want to apologize for the events of a few da—" she began, the picture of decorum, as though she were apologizing for an oversight or misunderstanding about a party invitation.

"Please don't," Hermione instructed succinctly.

"There was—"

"Stop," she ordered, and Narcissa recoiled immediately; "You're doing this to gain my favor, and my attention, and my willingness to listen. You're not doing it because you mean it."

The older woman's unusually light eyes darkened to chipped ice. "Don't presume to tell me what I am and am not sorry about."

Hermione shook her head resolutely, ignoring the dangerous tone. "The more platitudes you give me, the less inclined I will be to consider your proposal seriously." Hands wrung nervously at her sides, belaying the slightest undertone of skepticism and unease, she surveyed Narcissa Malfoy with as much conviction and confidence as she could muster.

"Allow me, then, to address our current issue. I understand that you are familiar with the intricasies of time and its many paradoxes — you were given free range to a time turner when you were thirteen, no?"

It was an abrupt change of direction, but somehow, the cold, direct tone of voice settled her stomach somewhat. A Malfoy being brusque, stiff and formal was something she could find familiar, at the least, if not quite comforting. "Yes," she answered, careful to let slip nothing damning in her expression. With her usual group of confidantes, deception was quite simple. But this wasn't her usual lion's den — this was a viper's nest, and she was so far out of her element. She couldn't afford to forget that. "How have you come about that information?"

"Hardly the point, Miss Granger," Narcissa replied, the ghost of amusement on her plump lips.

Hermione shook her head resolutely; "It is very much the point to me; if there is a breach in my network of trust, I'd ought to know about it, and you'd ought to tell me, if you aim to extend the good will you are promising."

"Severus," the older woman admitted, something akin to a languid shrug in her shoulders.

"And I'm sure he shared that information freely with the family fallen so far from Voldemort's good graces that they've been reduced to nothing but landlords and hostesses," Hermione supplied with a sharp, feral grin.

"Mhm," Narcissa hummed in thought, a sly smile of her own on her pink lips; "You're an interesting thing, aren't you? Brash as a Gryffindor, through and through, but there's no denying there's a sly, cunning little edge underneath all that bravado. A little more Slytherin than your counterparts, are you, Miss Granger?"

Hermione's ingrained house prejudices were openly offended by the comparison, but her face remained mostly neutral. Perhaps she was a little more underhanded and subtle than Harry and Ron—she'd always known that—but that didn't make her a _Slytherin_.

"I meant no offense, Miss Granger," Narcissa was holding back what seemed to be genuine humor; "It'll serve you well, in any case. You'll need it."

"Need it for what, _exactly_?"

Her tone took on a much more succinct and formal tone, if that were possible. Long-winded explanations did not seem Narcissa's style, and to that very point, her explanation was shockingly pointed.

"Time-travel, as I'm sure you know, is volitale. However, the world we live in and its inevitable future is a fate far worse than a potential paradox. Thirty years ago, nineteen sixty-eight, on Saturday, the 2nd of September, my sister — Bellatrix — received a letter. I need you to intercept that letter."

Whatever carefully concealed mask she had mastered by this point melted instantly. "You — time travel?! You owl me with a proposition to end the war and its main centerpiece is time travel? What sort of sick joke is this? If you wanted to kidnap me, the amateurish cover story could've been a hell of a lot cleverer than that."

"I assure you, this is no joke."

To this, Hermione had little response. "Are you insane?" She asked, her voice low and entirely without venom, just honest confusion.

"Perhaps," Narcissa answered, no hint of amusement or sarcasm in the conviction. Her voice, icy and chilling, declared, "I have been housing a meglomaniac half-human abomination in my home for nearly eight months, Miss Granger — sanity is no longer a luxury I can afford."

"I'd wager it's the _only_ luxury you can't afford," Hermione scoffed.

A wry half-smile decorated the woman's lips, but she did not answer.

"I am only entertaining this line of thought due to curiousity, but how would one intercepted owl change the course of Voldemort's reign?"

A dejected, almost remorseful sigh escaped the normally composed witch as she answered, a fair deal more emotionally than Hermione had expected, "I was only thirteen myself at the time — an innocent, insipid young girl so self-absorbed in superficial concerns that she couldn't see the ruin of her family all around her. My parents were so fanatical about blood purity, they couldn't see past their own noses, Andro — " she broke off here, a small, throaty cough covering some intense, conflicted emotion; "the middle of the Black sisters was so enamored with a fool of a boy that she distanced herself from everything she knew, and my eldest sister was so disenfranchised with the crumbling, inept government she was told to idolize that she found solace and sought wisdom in a vigilante — an unstable madman who would one day become the most feared name in wizarding history."

Unsure of where and how hard to push, Hermione spoke so softly she could barely hear herself; "What does any of—"

—"The Dark Lord sent my sister a letter. I do not know what was in it, but I know that from that day forward, she could not be dissuaded that he was some sort of savior. Before she received that letter, she was still entertaining the idea of civility. After it, there was a hold over her that was... unnatural, even pathological. Despite the world's perception of my sister, there was a time when she was brilliant — level-headed, rational, and something of a prodigy. To see her waste it all on such a g—"

"Forgive me for feeling uncomfortable singing your psychotic sister any praises," Hermione spat bitterly in a voice colder than she could've ever thought she was capable.

"All the same—"

"If you're asking me to save your sister's life because she deserves it—"

Narcissa's even-tempered disposition was shattering quickly. "This is not just about my sister, you daft girl! Do you know what my sister has done for his 'organization'? What the Death Eaters would _be_ without her leadership?! It has been theorized — correctly, I'm tempted to believe — that Mr. Potter would not have escaped the Dark Lord more than once if it had not been for you, and, in a similar fashion, the Dark Lord would be a footnote in a History of Magic textbook were it not for my sister."

The comparison sent chills down Hermione's spine, but she knew at this point, it was best to let that lie.

"How do you know intercepting one letter would make a difference? Surely he would simply send another, wouldn't he?"

Narcissa shook her head with a sad smile—"The Dark Lord's downfall is his hubris. He does not believe in the value of any living being, and anyone who does not immediately bend to his will can find themselves tossed aside or killed rather quickly."

"Why me?" The question was thick with anxiety.

"You are the only person that fit the qualifications I needed. A steadfast desire to end the war; a rational, level-headed perspective on the assignment; an integrity not easily swayed, and most importantly, the ability to blend in the halls of Hogwarts in nineteen sixty-eight. A brilliant, talented but rather plain looking muggle-born is more than I could've asked for."

Hermione couldn't have cared less that Narcissa didn't consider her appearance to be anything of note, but it was the first part of the statement that she was hung on. _Narcissa Malfoy_ thought her to be brilliant and talented? It was such an odd sensation, because the majority of her was insistent that she didn't need the approval of delusional pure-blood snobs, but there was another — a deeper, darker part of her that she hadn't entertained in many years — whose only true want in the wizarding world was to be recognized as something special... _atypical_ , even. The exception.

There was a frenzied craze in her voice now, searching for anything that would end this nightmare of a conversation. "You expect me to believe that you have absolutely _no problem_ with my parentage — that you're _entirely_ willing to rest the fate of the wizarding world on a muggleborn?"

Narcissa leaned forward, the hem of her high-fashion, shimmering dress robes tickling Hermione's ankles as the woman moved—"Allow me to be as frank as possible, Ms. Granger — I am not at all comfortable with the risks I percieve muggles and muggleborns pose to our society and its continued secrecy. However, I do not believe your magic to be inherently inferior, nor do I believe senseless murder is an acceptable solution for my concerns."

As Hermione opened her mouth to speak, Narcissa held up a delicate hand—"However, even if this were _only_ a question of my beliefs — which, let's not lie to ourselves, it isn't — there would be far more at play here. This monster has torn apart my family — my son is traumatized beyond my wildest nightmares, my husband is a shell of his former self and my sister has gone utterly mad under his direction. Make no mistake, Miss Granger, the Black family protects its own over anyone and anything else. If you believe my ideologies to be a lie, then believe at least in my family loyalty."

Hermione took a labored breath and let out a heavy sigh — despite the sheer ludicrousness of the proposal, it seemed the older woman was serious. "There are simply too many risks, too many factors that I can't predict—"

"It is a simple operation, Miss Granger," Narcissa cut in smoothly; "You will have twenty-four hours to intercept the owl and get back to Hogsmeade to the abandonded shed in the fields behind the Hog's Head. There, you will find a time-lock. It is exceptionally similar to a portkey, and works exactly the same way. You will arrive in nineteen sixty-eight at 3 p.m. on the 2nd, and the time-lock will activate to bring you back at exactly 3 p.m. on the 3rd and transport you back to the same shed thirty years in the future."

"It's—" Hermione was entirely at a loss for words. "I simply can't take your word for this, I'm sorry."

Her face a deep, cherry red, Narcissa narrowed her eyes. "You insolent child, do you understand wh—"

"If you would allow me to speak to her, Narcissa."

Oh, god. This was it — the Death Eaters had come to take her captive, and she was sure a vicious battle soon to commence. But Bill and Fleur did not stand — the eldest Weasley simply gave her a lopsided little smile. With heavy trepidation, she looked up.

"Hello, Hermione," Kingsley Shacklebolt greeted her with that captivating combination of his austere, deep voice and warm, kind eyes. As he effortlessly waved his wand around them — more protection enchantments, naturally — he chuckled at her expression; "Do not be alarmed, Hermione, it is indeed me. And if you need further confirmation of that, I can tell Mrs. Malfoy here the story of how, the summer between her fourth and fifth years, a fifteen year old Miss Granger walked in on me sho—"

Hermione's cheeks flamed instantly, hastening to interrupt. "No further confirmation needed, thank you."

Narcissa did not ask a follow up question, although her smirk was positively lethal.

"Before you ask," Kingsley began, taking a seat between the two witches, "I trust Narcissa Malfoy with my life, and I suggest you do the same. This is not something we've conconted on a whim, Hermione. We've been planning this for months, and we think if anyone is up to the task, it's you."

"Why—" Oh dear god, this was causing a hell of a migraine — "Why is there even a 'we' that consists of you and _Narcissa Malfoy_ in the first place?"

"That's a very long story. Let's just say that Narcissa and I have done more than enough for each other over the years for a bond of mutual trust." Seeing her hesitance, he continued — "This is safe, Hermione. I would not send you on a suicide mission. There is—"

"There are factors here neither of you are aware of," Narcissa interrupted, not content at being delegated to the sidelines for very long. "The Dark Lord has failsafes the likes of which are disastrous and nearly impossible to destroy, let alone locate."

Hermione's eyebrows rose to her hair. Narcissa Malfoy knew about horcruxes? She _must_ … the way she was looking at her – that knowing, pinched frown. Perhaps Lucius Malfoy wasn't as guarded as he seemed – or maybe she gave Narcissa too little credit.

"You will lose this war, you will be killed or enslaved, and the Dark Lord will rule over a desolate landscape of a wizarding world I have no desire to partake in." Her breath quick and heavy, she declared, "And if you do not seem to care about that, I will do it myself, time paradoxes be damned."

Kingsley's voice was a sharp, powerful command—"Calm yourself, Narcissa. You know the dangers, and you will do no such thing."

Hermione hadn't thought there was anyone who could get away with talking to the Malfoy matriarch that way, but Kingsley Shacklebolt was constantly surprising her with just how much influence he had over so many people.

Sensing the need for a different approach, Narcissa appealed to Hermione, softer and calmer this time, "The world is coming to ruin, Miss Granger. You know this as well as I; I can see it in your eyes. It's a rather drastic measure, yes. But living another day in this world is just as — if not more — unpredictable than time travel."

Reaching her hand in her pocket, she pulled out a stunningly bright time turner, its sheen glistening and reflecting even under the dim tavern lights. She placed it in Hermione's hands, and spoke gravely serious; "One turn, Miss Granger — _only one_. Do not attempt anything else with this time turner, or you'll find your existence splinched rather than your limbs."

Kingsley, ignoring Narcissa for the moment, then handed Hermione a nondescript white envelope, no addresses, names or writing on it and she stuffed both items in her beaded bag, a wary expression on her features. "Take this as well," he instructed, commanding yet compassionate, "And consider everything we've told you. If you decide to do as we've asked, this envelope will serve as a last resort. If something goes awry in the past, deliver that envelope to myself, twenty years old, living in a flat in Hogsmeade above Meager's Apothecary on Boylse Street."

Hermione nodded, her mind swimming with questions and fears. "Go," he said hurridley, "I believe we've all overstayed our welcome." Taking a look around, she could see this was indeed the case. Although there were at least fifteen different variants of powerful protection and anti-detection measures around their table — polyjuice included — the other patrons were starting to take notice of them.

Kingsley gave her a warm smile, while she received little but a brusque nod from Narcissa, who seemed to be willing an Imperius with just her eyes for how intensely they were narrowed.

Outside the inconspicuous little tavern they had met in, Hermione ran nervous fingers through her polyjuiced blonde hair and disapparated on the spot.

* * *

Pacing the beach outside Bill and Fleur's home, a thousand questions ran through her head. Was this as safe as they claimed, or had desperation finally taken hold of everyone, even Kingsley? Could she risk being face-to-face with Bellatrix Lestrange again, even in the woman's seveteen year old incarnation? Why on earth did Kingsley trust Narcissa Malfoy, and was it misguided?

But more importantly, was the older woman right? Was the future for this timeline so desolate and doomed that any timeline created in its place would be better?

That was the question that would determine her course of action — yes, she believed that horrible things were on the horizon. But how horrible, and could she still have a chance to change them?

Her answer came in the form of Fleur's accented shout—"'Ermione!" The usually stunning witch disguised as a plain, frumpy grandmother came bounding down the rocks, displaying a speed and an urgency Hermione had never associated with the witch before. "Ze need to talk 'bout zis, it iz no—"

Fleur's frenzied words died as quickly as she did. A strong jet of blue light hit her square in the back, and she catapulted forward, her lifeless body making a strongly sickening crunch against a large rock.

Hermione's face white as a ghost, terror stricken and fueled entirely on instinct, she raised her wand to her attacker immediately. The dark figure was still a fair ways away from her, but she could hear the chilling yet oddly familar laugh even over the ocean waves. Where had she heard that laugh before?

"HERMIONE!" Ron's distraught cry reverberated for miles, his panic louder than any battle that may be commencing all around them. Three more dark figures circled around, easily deflecting Hermione's curses and stunners, and for a moment, protected by a strong shield charm, she fingered the chain of the time-turner in her bag.

She had her answer. No one was getting out of this alive. What was she waiting for? Why wouldn't her fingers stop shaking long enough to spin the dial?

The moment her shield dropped, she saw head-on her best friend and the chosen one of the wizarding world fall back, his brilliant green eyes as sharp and vibrant as the deadly curse that had only hit him once before.

Instinctively, her fingers moved and turned the tiny dial — _once, only once_ — and in those very last moments, the terror and despair in Ron Weasley's ocean blue eyes was the center of her universe.

And then, all too quickly, a sudden lurch pulling behind her navel, there was no longer any universe.

* * *

 **Notes:** I hope you enjoyed, and please leave any comments, questions or constructive criticism. Thanks guys. :)


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